


Allegretto (Prelude No. 17 in A Flat)

by abogadobarba (daltonfightclub)



Series: Preludes [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Character Study, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Rafael Barba, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s19e13 The Undiscovered Country, Preludes Series, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, all you need to know is barba is soft af okay, barisi is soft and no one can convince me otherwise!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daltonfightclub/pseuds/abogadobarba
Summary: For everything he’s lost this past year, Rafael knows he shouldn’t be so lucky as to have gained so much, and he’s never felt the magnitude of his fortune as acutely as he does now, with the last dregs of coffee in his cup and a clever, benevolent, honest man in his bed.Now, there’s Sonny, and as a result, Rafael knows, in the nethermost regions of his soul, that what came before will never again qualify as a life fully lived.OR the one in which Rafael Barba is soft, Sonny has questions, and New York is really effing cold.





	Allegretto (Prelude No. 17 in A Flat)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soul_writerr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soul_writerr/gifts).



> Finally, the continuation/sequel to Lento Assai! If I didn’t say it before, I intend to make these into a bit of a series ("Preludes"), so hopefully you’ll stick around to see what’s next! I *think* this can be read on its own, but would definitely be best within the context of that story. Much like Lento Assai, this is definitely more character study than anything else, and seeks to answer some of the questions the last story left open, so if you're into that kinda thing, I hope you enjoy a little deep dive into their dynamics!
> 
> This is a gift for soul_writerr who left the very first comment on my other fic, and was SUCH a sweetheart about it (as were you all!) that I had to give this one to you. Thank you for being so kind!
> 
> ALSO: if anyone’s going to see the 2PM showing of road show this week and wants to meet up, lmk!! i can't believe I'm gonna be in the same room as Raúl (and his voice! and stephen sondheim?!)
> 
> Kudos, commentary, suggestions, feedback are always appreciated! Tysm for reading!

The day after their long-awaited reunion, the morning moves in slowly with the first light breaking through the blinds, casting gloomy, sidelong shadows across Sonny’s face where he rests, _finally_ , atop Rafael’s chest. It’s the sum of everything Rafael longed for and nothing he dared imagine during all those solitary nights when he had nothing aside from his scotch and self-disdain for company. 

As he looks down at Sonny now, brow knitted even in slumber as if he’s trying to work over a case in the deepest recesses of his subconscious, Rafael wonders how, despite all the missteps, he managed to get it right–or at least right enough to be here, with this man, in this city, with all the possibilities that his willful ignorance can afford to supplicate. 

He’s not a religious man, at least not any longer, but even Rafael Barba can appreciate the sanctity of such a moment coming to pass. He smiles at the thought, not for its implications but for what Sonny would make of him having it at all.

Then, as if he raised the man from the dead himself, Sonny grumbles, the roughness of his sleep-addled voice rumbling through Rafael’s chest, “Time issit?”

“Early,” Rafael responds, brushing a strand of rogue hair back up and off Sonny’s forehead with thrice as much tenderness as he knew himself to possess. There’s no occasion to glance at the bedside clock; after nearly a quarter of a century of waking up for the law, he knows the character of every minute between five and eight a.m. Not unlike the rest of it, it’s knowledge he hasn’t quite been able to shed since his departure from the district attorney’s office nearly ten months ago.

“Go back to sleep, Raf,” Sonny all but grunts, though the sentiment is diluted by the open-mouthed kisses he proceeds to plant across Rafael’s warm and bare chest. Rafael’s surprised by the hint of a surly early morning demeanor; one would think that, with a name like _Sonny Carisi_ , he’d be predisposed to wake up with the same outrageous zeal for the day that he exudes at all other hours.

“Well, which is it?” Rafael muses, hands trailing the length of Sonny’s arms from where they’re pillowed beneath his chin. “Are we sleeping or are we fucking?”

Sonny stills, looks as though Rafael’s turned not just a phrase but a bucket of ice water over his head, then throws himself dramatically back onto the bed. “Aw jeez,” he huffs, “why’d you gotta ruin it like that?”

“What would you rather me call it, Sonny? Fornicating? Having intercourse? Engaging in sexual activities? _Making love?”_ He says the last one with a bastard of a drawl, channeling his best Rhett Butler as he gathers Sonny up in his arms–gangly limbs, bony elbows and all–and squeezes tight. _“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”_

“Ha ha,” Sonny says flatly, though the flush blooming at the tops of his cheekbones gives his infatuation away. “Nah, it’s not all that racket. I just thought we had a moment goin’ there, y’know?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Rafael replies, extricating himself from the tangled mess of extremities, but not before pressing his lips to the rounded corner of Sonny’s hairline, “but exactly what part of my existence led you to believe that I’d be inclined to be a romantic?”

“Uh, all of last night, to start with,” Sonny says in defiance as the rose develops into crimson and spreads to the tips of his ears. “And I don't know, most of _this_ so far has been pretty much a surprise, so I guess I wouldn’t put romance past you either.”

“Hm,” Rafael hums, pleased about what sounds to be a compliment and setting upon the shallow hollow of Sonny’s throat, the same spot that usually cradles a tie, and a heartbeat, and a scent that's so singularly _Sonny._ Candidly, Rafael would admit to more than a fortnight’s worth of fantasies about this particular patch of skin, and with the way Sonny’s vocalizing around shortened breaths, he thinks maybe he’s not alone in that predilection. 

“In that case,” Rafael says into Sonny’s ear, low and dangerous in a way that’s a bit contrived, but nevertheless affecting, “maybe I’ll surprise you some more after I have a shower.”

He then calls upon all the self-control he’s managed to accrue in his forty-some years of life, and draws back once more from this stupidly handsome man. “And coffee. Obviously.”

He punctuates his departure with a few pats to Sonny’s cheek before rolling over and out of bed, disappearing into the overly bright light of the bathroom with the sound of Sonny’s muffled, frustrated groan echoing in his ears.

“A romantic,” Rafael scoffs under his breath as he fiddles with the faucet knobs, smug amusement twitching at his lips. “ _No te imagines, mi amado._ ”

*****

Rafael is not surprised and certainly not disappointed, a half-hour later, to find a still-naked Sonny snoozing, face-down, arms and legs akimbo, across the width of his bed. The sun has made its pilgrimage up and over the building across the street, so Rafael sets the two mugs he carried from the kitchen down on the dresser and moves to open the blinds, bathing the room–and Sonny’s exposed backside–in a cool winter morning light. 

It’s a portrait so pretty, surely it deserves a place beside the _Mona Lisa_ or _The Birth of Venus_ or _Water Lilies._

“You have clothes on,” Sonny mumbles, burrowing into the down comforter.

“I understand Staten Island is rather … primitive,” Rafael says while collecting the coffee from the dresser, “but across the river, here in civilization, we frown upon public indecency.” He hands a mug over to Sonny, who begrudgingly sits up, but accepts it with gratitude all the same. “P.L. 245.01–maybe you’ve heard of it?”

Sonny shoots him a dubious look over the top of his steaming mug, inhales deeply, and appears to be taking in much more than the smell of his too-sweet _Bustelo_. “Yeah, well,” he tugs at a handful of Rafael’s soft t-shirt until it pulls taut across his shoulders, “you can’t blame a guy for dreamin’.”

“Sonny,” Rafael says, bemused enough to reach out and cradle Sonny’s stubbled jaw in one hand, “there’s no need to dream–I’m right here.” He intends it as a joke but delivers it with far too much affection for that argument to hold; Sonny’s glossy eyes don’t exactly usher them closer to levity either.

“See?” Sonny smiles into the palm of Rafael’s hand and kisses it for good measure. “I knew you had it in you.”

Rafael leers, and with no small amount of exaggeration at that–he’s grateful for the easy out. “Oh, is _that_ what I had in-”

“Barba _,_ don’t you _dare_ finish that sentence,” Sonny squawks. His accent is somehow heavier now, the vowels flatter, whole syllables of words swallowed by a persistent drowsiness. It’d be endearing if the thought of such an unexpected discovery–and more to the point, Rafael’s vested interest in such a novelty–wasn’t driving him close to the edge of delirium.

It’s not that Rafael hasn’t before entertained the notion of such intimacy playing out in this very room, or in his old apartment, for the matter; even Sonny himself has made guest appearances in one or two (or all) of Rafael’s deepest held desires for some time now–he’s only human, after all–and sure, his life _has_ veered toward one primarily of solitary confinement, definitely since the trial, maybe even a decade before that, but he long ago convinced himself it’s more a circumstance of convenience than an entrenched psychosis that leads him to favor monasticism over promiscuity.

Strictly speaking, Rafael doesn’t do _this_ , what he’s doing with Sonny now, what he did with Sonny last night: he doesn’t sit huddled together on couches or in beds, smiling into his glass for fear of being seen; he doesn’t grant himself access to let his hands wander, his eyes wander, his heart wander to the broadest valleys where love blooms like poppies; he doesn’t share himself and his life so willingly, so absolutely, allowing the most profound cracks to be exposed in all their grotesque detail; and he sure as hell doesn’t run into former colleagues in market aisles only to take them to bed but hours later. Rafael doesn’t do _any_ of these things

At least, not in this lifetime he hasn’t.

But now? 

Now, there are questions of morality, and purpose, and passion; and visits to Abuelita’s grave; and long brunches with Mami; and time enough to read entire novels in one sitting; and though he can’t always believe it, casual strolls in the park to no end other than reveling in the indisputable fact of being alive. For everything he’s lost this past year, Rafael knows he shouldn’t be so lucky as to have gained so much, and he’s never felt the magnitude of his fortune as acutely as he does now, with the last dregs of coffee in his cup and a clever, benevolent, honest man in his bed. 

Now, there’s Sonny, and as a result, Rafael knows, in the nethermost regions of his soul, that what came before will never again qualify as a life fully lived. 

To state his case plainly, Rafael Barba is _unequivocally_ fucked.

“You’re right,” Rafael yields, depositing their empty cups on the nightstand, then resting his head in one hand in an attempt to convey he’s _casual_ , and _composed,_ and _absolutely not a goddamn lovelorn wreck._ Just as he did last night, he reaches out to spread a palm flat against Sonny’s side, splays out his fingers until they’ve claimed nearly half the expanse of a ribcage. “I apologize for deflecting. I’ll try to refrain in the future.”

Rafael’s words, or perhaps his sure hands, have something of a snooze effect on Sonny, who’s smiling stupidly against the sunlight, dimples and laugh lines and crow’s feet and all. It looks as though he was _made_ to bask in this exceptional moment, this particular ray of light. _It’s providence_ , Rafael surmises, and though he’d concede to witnessing the divine elsewhere on earth–the snow-capped peaks of Gstaad, the cerulean waters of Mallorca, the fog-covered valleys of Machu Picchu–nonesuch beauty could put a fire in his gut like the sublime scene unfolding before him.

So it follows that he would say too much, and yet, not nearly enough: “ _Sabes lo hermoso que eres?_ ”

Sonny laughs, bewildered and besotted in equal order. “Raf, I’m not sure if I should confess here or keep it in my pocket, but you do know _puedo entender algo de español_ , right?”

Rafael grimaces, the words falling out of Sonny’s mouth like clunky parts from an old jalopy. 

When he finally recovers from his laughing fit _and_ the horror that was Dominick Carisi butchering the Spanish language, he says, “ _Ah soleado,_ are you sure about that?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know I’m no _Don Quixote_ over here, but the point stands, alright?” He shuffles in closer, invading Rafael’s space and his senses and his better judgment, and grabs a hold of whatever skin he finds first: a wrist, a bicep, a thick stretch of neck. “I do know _some_ Spanish, and now I know you think I’m _hermoso_.”

He says it like the playground troublemaker who just discovered a deep, dark secret and relays it to the class at the top of his lungs; it’s exasperating and childish and exactly what Rafael would expect from a 38-year-old man who insists on being called Sonny, for Christ’s sake. 

“I’m gonna have to call Amaro– _El Guapo_ himself! He’s gonna piss himself, I swear.”

“Charming.” Rafael rolls his eyes, albeit fondly, and calms Sonny’s roving hand with his own. “But yes, I really do think so. Care to raise an objection?”

“Oh no,” Sonny says, too quickly to be considered any degree of smooth. “No objections here, Counselor. But,” he manages to roll them both over then, maneuvering their bodies with an ease and strength that shouldn’t surprise Rafael, but does tenfold. “How ‘bout we revisit that whole _making love_ thing now, huh?”

“I think the words you’re searching for, _Detective_ ,” Rafael pauses only to bite at the base of Sonny’s throat, his jaw, his ear, leaving in his wake a trail of saliva and welts and absolute devastation, “are _fuck me._ ”

“Yeah,” Sonny exhales, “works for me.”

*****

Perhaps it would be hyperbolic to assert that, upon emerging from Rafael’s apartment some eighteen hours after first crossing its threshold–finally clean, and dazed, and satisfied on a surfeit of skin, and touch, and taste–Rafael and Sonny were, for all intents and purposes, changed men.

An overreach, maybe, but Rafael no longer speaks for the city, nor does he carry a prosecutor’s badge; he can make all the grandiose, garish, unsubstantiated claims he sees fit, especially when it concerns matters of his own heart’s desire.

“ _Christ_ ,” Sonny huffs, stuffing his gloveless hands into his pockets. It’s no comfort against the bitter Manhattan chill that’s settled upon the streets, a cold which plummeted into the depths of contemptible winter overnight, the way it can only do in a city where wind ravages your cheeks and frost clings to your eyelashes without the least concern for comfort or vitality. 

“Am I losing it here or was it not nearly this freakin' cold when we came home last night?”

(And how long _had_ they been holed up in that apartment, cloistered away from reality and all its repugnant corollaries, indulging in each other and all such vulnerabilities so implied? Given Rafael had entered a stage in his life where he could be caught, on occasion and with the assistance of a few fingers of liquor, counting the minutes passing as he marched nearer to his own demise, it’s quite a ruse that Sonny should steal so much of his time without obligation of question or apology.)

“We can head back,” Rafael says, though he makes no attempt to pause or change course, even in the face of a ‘Don’t Walk’ sign glowing red and angry across the street. “You didn’t plan for the weather and it wouldn’t exactly ruffle my feathers to order in.”

“Nah, I’m good."

Rafael notices the amusement pulling at and settling in a shallow dimple, so he prods, “But?”

“But nothing! Just think I needed some fresh air after all of, ya know.” Sonny tries–and fails–to steal a sideways glance. Curiosity is written across his face plain as day, no doubt an attempt to gauge the surety of his footing on the new and perilous ground extending before and betwixt them. So naturally, Rafael lets him twist in the wind–at least for a block or two longer.

“It’s just _a lot_ , am I right?” Sonny says a bit more urgently as he turns to face Rafael. They’re stuck in a deadlock now at the corner of Broadway and 85th, a large semi truck just having attempted to turn down an alley it had no business being on, clogging up the street and the crosswalk and the crowds therein.

“Not in a bad way,” Sonny continues, bearing the cold to grab at the crook of Rafael’s elbows. “But I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t a little worried you were gonna run for the hills as soon as we stepped foot outside.” He tries to smooth out his expression, but even such a valiant attempt at indifference can’t burnish the deepest worry etched into the creases between his brows where too many years of fear, and anger, and burden carve out a few thin lines for the world to witness and ridicule. 

He slides his hands down Rafael’s forearms, onto Rafael’s hips, holds on for a beat too long to be casual, and lets them slip away.

“Look, Sonny,” Rafael says, and judging by the stricken look that lands on Sonny’s face, Rafael figures he might need to work on his bedside manner. To be fair, he _really_ had no desire to have this out in public, but after five years of working together and god knows how many hours of extracurricular pining, Rafael knows well enough to say with certainty that Sonny won’t have a fighting chance of making it to the café before paranoia annihilates him. 

_Hell_ , he probably wouldn’t even make it down the block.

So, Rafael does what any good New Yorker would do in such dire straits–he takes hold of Sonny and drags him through the bottlenecked crowd towards the closest bastion of respite within eyesight: a small Starbucks with fogged windows and just enough space to shield them from the cold. It’s certainly not Rafael’s first choice of matter or moment, but then again, not a lot in his life has been.

Well, Sonny excepted.

“I may be out of practice,” Rafael says once they’re through the door and taking up more real estate than should probably be allowed in a city of millions, “but I’m not now, nor have I ever been, in the habit of restating my case, so please, for the love of god, listen carefully.” 

Sonny shrugs in the affirmative, a little green in the face, and Rafael hopes this is the first and last time he’ll have to see him so out of sorts. 

“What I said last night–on the couch, in _bed_ –that’s it. That’s all there is to it. _You_ , Sonny,” he crowds in close then, pushing Sonny up against the tall bar counter that looks out into the gray streets of the Upper West Side, and digs his hands into sharp hip bones. “This is it. For me, _you_ are it. ”

Surely, there is a gaggle of tourists eavesdropping, if not outright gawking, but Rafael does not give one damn–he can’t possibly, not when he’s just made the most portentous closing argument of his life, not when the joy breaking across Sonny’s face looks alarmingly similar to an immaculate beginning, and definitely not when they’ve come so close to the precipice of something real, and raw, and transcendent.

So, if the most prophetic moment of his humble existence must take place in the confines of a sterile, corporate husk of a coffee shop surrounded by a congregation of invasively curious Midwestern tourists, then so be it; Rafael’s no longer in the business of forcing fate’s hand.

“I trust you know I wouldn’t confess to something that wasn’t irrefutable, and my feelings aren’t so delicate as to shatter the moment they see the light of day, so please,” he pulls them flush together, revelling in the puff of breath he steals from Sonny’s lungs with little more than the force of his conviction, “stop looking at me like I’m a case you need to solve and just relax. _Me entiendes?”_

“Yeah, yeah,” Sonny says, all the bravado stripped from his voice, leaving nothing but exposed edges of awe and a bit of a watery smile. “ _Sí claro.”_

Rafael laughs and drops his head to Sonny’s chest, smitten as he is. It’d shock few, least of all Rafael, to know that he’s laughed more in the last day than he has the prior six months. He feels better, and lighter, and younger for it. 

“I gotta say though, it might take some time to reconcile who I thought I knew–ya know, _District Attorney Rafael Barba–_ with the man in front of me now, the one who’s just layin’ it all out there.” He leans in closer, and for Rafael’s ears alone, “The one who fucked me _so good_ this morning that I’m literally gettin’ hard just _thinking_ about it.”

Before Rafael can get a word in edgewise, Sonny lands both hands high on Rafael’s shoulders, jimmies them under the cashmere scarf, his cold fingers a shock to every one of Rafael’s nerve endings. “It’s kinda like I went to bed yesterday and woke up in a fucking daydream, y’know? You’re you but you’re also not you. It’s like you’re all, I don't know, soft around the edges.”

(And what else remains of a cynic of a man when the dust settles, when, despite a lifetime of self-imposed isolation, he should find himself with the whole of the world, and a man so beautiful, opened up and just within reach? What’s to be made of such a gift–the precious, exquisite, oft-sought promise of a future being well-loved and well-fucked–if not cause for ease, and tenderness, and vulnerability?)

“So in summation,” Rafael says, covering his incriminating softness with one raised and unimpressed brow, “we’re good at fucking and I’m getting soft, though both I _and_ my ego hope the two need be mutually exclusive.”

Of all the possible scenarios Rafael explored in the many lonely months after leaving his job, and Liv, and the squad, and the entirety of his life’s work, not one of them involved getting practically _mauled_ by Detective Dominick Carisi Jr. in a shoebox of a Starbucks, surrounded by rubbernecks in puffy coats, in some corner of the city where he’d never before had reason to venture.

_You will be the death of me_ , he thinks. _Oh, wouldn’t that be a lovely way to go?_

“Better?” Rafael asks when they pull apart, finding it harder to catch his breath than he’d ever admit, what with the way Sonny’s anointing him with featherlight kisses–on his lips, his nose, his forehead.

Yes, it’s true that Rafael definitely doesn’t usually do _this_ , not with someone ten years his junior, not in such a public place where the threat of ignorance and danger looms ever-present, not with a contingency of church moms gaping at them like Central Park Zoo animals, not when he’s spent the night fucking and getting fucked in a way that, up until yesterday, seemed more an unattainable fantasy than a statistical probability. 

No, he’s never done this, and given the sheepishness Sonny’s assumed now that he’s come back down to earth and reassessed his surroundings, Rafael knows that Sonny hasn’t done this either–at least not with another man, maybe not with anyone at all–but he’s so pleased to be doing it now, doing it here, with this absolute wrecking ball of a human.

“So, do we have an understanding?” Rafael presses as he withdraws himself from their entanglement.

Sonny laughs then, absolutely beside himself with disbelief, his glee ringing clear as a whistle even over the whirl of the espresso machines and chatter floating out from behind the bar. “Yeah, guess you could say that. I think we have a deal, Barba.” 

He leans into Rafael again, lips to hairline, breathing in slow and steady.

Rafael does wonder then, what they must look like, two grown men, one in wrinkled day-old clothing, wedged together like a couple of teenagers, stealing time and touches and whatever else the universe might allow. It’s schmaltzy, at best, and humiliating, at worst–both things Rafael has actively avoided the entirety of his adult life–but being here now, watching the whole of Manhattan pass by the window with their heads down and eyes glued to glowing screens, knowing he was one of them not but a year prior, Rafael knows that, of the two positions held, he’s not the one who should feel so shamed.

“Ya know,” Sonny says, upturning Rafael’s collar for no other reason than to sustain cause for contact, “You never did tell me what you’re doin’ all the way up here in the boonies.”

“Boonies,” Rafael mutters, the word traitorous and heavy on his tongue. “I wouldn’t be so callous as to equate the upper 80s with the _boondocks_ , but no, I suppose I didn’t.”

Sonny juts out a hip, cranes his neck, and gives him a look Rafael ventures to guess means _It’s time to fess up, Counselor._

_Like a broken clock,_ Rafael thinks. “Why don’t I show you instead?’

*****

After a rushed meal of street cart bagels and cheap burnt coffee–Sonny, come to discover, has the appetite of an insatiable teenager and the willpower to match–a cab drops them off at Amsterdam and 116th, which, even after months of making this trek, still seems farther north on the island than Rafael should deign be, yet not far enough to call _home_.

It does please his mother, however, to have Rafael residing sixty blocks closer than he has for most of his grown life, so it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make–at least, as willing as a later-in-life career coup d’état would imply.

When Rafael is through paying the fair, he emerges to find Sonny looking across the street toward a tall wrought iron fence–imposing and elitist in a way Rafael secretly thrills in–with a quizzical expression projecting doubt across his face. He’s clocked this look on Sonny on more than a few occasions: in court hallways, behind the two-way interrogation mirror, on Rafael’s doorstep after midnight and three too many beers; he knows that Sonny’s contemplating how much rope he holds before he risks a hanging.

“Oh, Rafael,” Sonny says, apparently deciding their early morning bed cavorting warrants ample leeway, “are you going through a midlife crisis?”

Rafael slams the door, takes his sweet time contemplating coat buttons, and fixes Sonny with a scowl. “Excuse me.”

“Nah, I just mean,” Sonny's hands fly about to punctuate every syllable with wild gesticulation, “at our age? It’s better than going out and buyin’ a Mustang, am I right?”

“ _Sonny_ ,” he pleads, and with contempt lacing every word, “what, precisely, do you think we’re doing here?”

“Well, if that ain’t a loaded question,” Sonny cracks. He crosses his arms over his chest in consideration. “But no, let’s see here. Big brick buildings, ivy-covered gates, kids walking ‘round with more money on their feet than what’s in my checking account … Either you hooked up with Buchanan and crossed over to the dark side of defense, or I dunno, you decided to hit the books and get another degree?”

To say Rafael is dumbfounded may be an aggrandizement, but there’s no better word for the void threatening to consume his mind and body. “You cannot be serious.”

Sonny just shrugs, but like every other gesture, does so with his whole body–even his mouth turns down in indulgent exaggeration. He is a caricature of himself, and if Rafael wasn’t so incensed by the alleged implications on his age and his judgement, he would laugh for tethering himself to such a dippy wiseass, and deliberately at that.

“Tell me your investigative skills haven’t deteriorated _that_ much in my absence, Detective.”

Sonny barks out laughter then, a raucous, rolling chuckle that constitutes cause to clutch his belly and startle a gaggle of 1L students dragging themselves down the sidewalk after what was, without a doubt, a bender of a study session. “Yeah, you wish _._ Nah, I just couldn’t pass up the chance to see that look on your face.”

Rafael’s eyebrows shoot for the moon then, surprised as he is to know that his poker face, likely as a result of falling into relative disuse, may not wield the power it once possessed. Once he recovers with haste, he ushers them in from the edge of the sidewalk, whereupon he offers Sonny his arm.

_And his heart, and his life, and whatever else a man from humble beginnings with an ego cut by half has left to give._

Obviously charmed, Sonny accepts it with a satisfied smile, amenable to following Rafael wherever he sees fit to lead. “So teaching, huh? Always thought you’d be good at that–not that you’re not good at everything, because you are, you _so are_ , but I did learn a hell of a lot from you.”

“Yes, you learned well enough to leave the law alone. Smart.” Rafael opens one of the large glass doors of Jerome Greene Hall, ushers Sonny ahead, and flashes a faculty card at the door guard, granting them access to halls christened hallow by men so privileged they likely never knew the grim realities of law as intimately as the pair stood before them.

“Columbia Law School,” Sonny reads from a banner hanging over the atrium. “Guess I wasn’t expecting it to look so ... ‘70s.”

“What, Ivy League not good enough for you now, Carisi?” Rafael asks. He makes his way to a bank of elevators but has to double-back to coax Sonny along past a lineup of headshots of legal legends, past and present. “My, how the tables turned.”

“Hey,” he says, “First of all, at least Fordham looks like it was built in this century, _thank you very much_ , and second, they got you workin’ here, don’t they? Clearly they’re doing something right.”

“Aren’t you sweet,” Rafael deadpans.

“I’m just glad to see you landed on your feet, Counselor,” Sonny says with a lion’s share of sincerity, leaning up against the far wall of the elevator. “Or is it Professor now?”

For once, Rafael wishes their journey–both figuratively and literally–would slow to a halt: he could spend the remainder of his days just looking at this the man, his silver hair mussed by Rafael’s own hands; his eyes bright and curious; his lines long and lean, exposed shamelessly by a coat thrown open at the hips; his shoulders hunched, not self-consciously, but as if to accommodate low-hanging branches and ill-conceived doorways.

Sonny takes up so much space, Rafael observes, but it comes naturally, organic in a way that would make him unbearably envious had they met any number of years ago when Rafael was young, and eager to please, and still vied for attention, and clout, and privilege. 

These days, he’s more concerned with truth, and honesty, and fairness, as futile as that last pursuit may be, and has found nary a purpose nor desire for the grandstanding once so essential to his survival–both in and out of the courtroom–but that doesn’t preclude him from appreciating a trait so crude in a lover who, Rafael suspects, would go so far as to set the city on fire if it meant earning his praise or regard.

“Either is appropriate,” Rafael answers. “Though I don’t exactly hate the sound of _professor_ coming out of that mouth.” 

He exits the elevator begrudgingly, leaving behind the tempting vision Sonny makes, curious and beguiled and slightly flabbergasted, and starts down a long hallway. 

Rafael remembers being underwhelmed by the looks of the law school when first meeting with an endless slew of deans and trustees and student liaisons; their fawning and brazen obsession with his “ethical gaffe,” as one of the deans so shrewdly liked to call it, did make waves in distracting him from the dated decor and distinctly ordinary facilities, but now he sees it anew through Sonny’s eyes, sees the yellowing linoleum floors and fluorescent lighting, the muddied walls and tarnished door knobs, and feels a long-dormant anxiety rise from his gut: for the first time, and maybe not the last, he feels an urgency to impress Sonny. 

_How will I survive you?,_ Rafael wonders.

Instead, he opts to tackle the unasked question: “That is, either title is appropriate, given that I’m still technically practicing law.”

“Oh yeah? So I was right then, you _are_ defending these little shits, huh? I bet their parents would pay big bucks to get _the_ Rafael Barba on their side of the bench.” Sonny’s eyes are glimmering now with the good-natured teasing, and Rafael, what with his expensive degrees and esoteric wisdom, knows someone who’s been on this planet nearly four decades shouldn’t be so capable of _cute_. 

And yet.

“I should be offended you think I’d stoop so low as to slum it with Buchanan.” 

They stop in front of his office, which is smaller than Rafael’s former real estate at the DA’s to be sure, but what it lacks in space and prestige, it makes up in autonomy, and safety, and a considerable salary bump to boot. He fumbles with the keys, already so affected by Sonny’s earnest and effusive nature–both traits he’s mocked and resented in others for nearly as long as Sonny’s been alive. 

Then again, those others weren’t _Sonny,_ were they?

“So what, Calhoun? I always thought there might be some history there, if ya know what I mean.”

“Really, Carisi?” Rafael fixes him with a look for that one because _really?_ and then says with self-satisfied delight, “Bayard Ellis, actually.” 

“No shit!” Sonny pushes off of the wall where he was leaning beside the door, and follows Rafael into the dark, cramped office. “The Center for Civil Liberties? Man, that’s some big catch they reeled in.”

He helps himself to an armchair, spreads his legs wide to better fit in front of the desk, and Rafael is warmed from the familiarity of it, the way Sonny, no matter where he ends up–a precinct, a dive bar, an old building in a law school he’d never dream of attending–can make a place for himself, accent and stature and pedigree be damned. He melts into chairs and against walls and sits on tables, charging into every situation not with arrogance or entitlement like Rafael himself once did, but with purpose, and fervor, and righteousness.

_Yes_ , Rafael thinks, _a vision indeed._

“And you let me get away with that ‘landing on your feet line?’ Fuck that, Raf. You’re moving on up in the world.”

“Ah, the epitome of luxury,” Rafael says, motioning to the untenable office, the stacks of term papers, the tomes of case law haphazardly scattered about, the collection of mugs stained with days-old coffee, all the things yet to find a home in this new office–himself included. 

“It’s not like I maintained one of the best prosecutorial rates in all five boroughs, or that I sent _countless_ troglodytes to Rikers, or as you so judiciously pointed out, carried your sorry ass over the Bar finish line. No, who cares about any of that? Bayard Ellis likes me though, so yes, I’ve really _made_ it now.”

“Come on, Rafael,” Sonny says, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

“Do I?” Rafael retorts, though he can already feel himself deflating in the face of such sincerity.

Sonny crosses his arms over his chest, pushes out his knees that much wider, purses his lips in calculation; it’s a challenge, no doubt, one that Rafael has fallen for a time or two–or twenty. “Uh yeah, I’m pretty sure you do.”

Of course he knows: there’s no one in Rafael’s life, past or present, who’s trusted his judgment, and intellect, and humanity as fiercely and as vocally, without prejudice, as Sonny has over the past few years, and if it hadn’t already been proven out long ago, the last eighteen hours would surely be enough to evidence Sonny’s unqualified support and unwavering praise. 

So yes, not only does Rafael know what Sonny implied, but he also knows just how lucky he is to bear witness to it.

Undeterred by Rafael’s obstinance, Sonny says, “You’re gonna have to eventually explain how all of _this_ happened,” his hands trail along desk, over all the books and objects that filled Rafael’s office and his life in Sonny’s absence, “but tell me, _Professor_ , what’s a guy gotta do to get into one of your classes, huh?”

Rafael looks up from his desk, altogether unsurprised to see a wicked grin plastered across Sonny’s face, looking more like the cat who got the cream than a burgeoning co-ed, and tilts his head in suspicion. “Three years at Fordham not enough punishment for you?”

“If it meant getting to watch _you_ all day, up in your pulpit, waxing poetic about,” he glances down at the messy desk, plucks a book off the top of the pile, “ _Criminal Law and Its Processes_? Then yeah, I’d quit the force tomorrow and stay in school for, oh, _ever.”_

“You’d rack up an impressive tuition bill, if nothing else,” Rafael says with a smile so genuine, it looks nearly out of place on such a weathered face. “Besides, why buy the cow when I’m offering you the milk for free?”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Sonny says with a celebratory slap to his knee.

Truth be told, Rafael _is_ tempted by the thought of Sonny in his classroom: how he’d sit at attention at the front of the room, always with a question or a comment or an observation on the tip of his tongue; the way he’d cut down the entitled trust fund kids in his section with balanced perspective and keen insight–all with a friendly grin on his face; how he’d show up to lectures and office hours with not one but two coffees, zeppole in a white paper bag, and another kind of greeting twice as sweet.

Rafael isn’t usually one for such obvious and depraved fantasies, but he can’t deny the stirring in his gut as he thinks of Sonny walking through his door every week, well-dressed and begging to be filled with knowledge, and wisdom, and whatever else Rafael saw fit to provide. 

It’s a cheap type of thrill he hasn’t entertained in decades and, rather predictably, it’s one that forces all the blood in his brain and body to rush south.

Upon noticing Rafael’s reddening cheeks and growing predicament, Sonny springs from his chair, plants his hands on the edge of the desk, and leans over into Rafael’s space. “Not that I don’t love seeing you in your element here, Raf, but how about we head back to your place, I make us a real meal, and then you can teach me all about the constitutional doctrines regulating the adjudication process,” he glances down brazenly, “or y’know, whatever else you think I might need to know.”

Rafael rolls his eyes but leans in anyway, close enough to feel hot puffs of breath against his lips. “Only if you take _very_ detailed notes.”

“Oh,” Sonny says, “I think I can handle that, _Professor_.”

“I’ve never doubted you for a second,” Rafael says, intending it to be casual, flirtatious, sultry even, but perhaps he’s more out of practice than he knew or maybe he _has_ gone soft because it does nothing but put stars in Sonny’s eyes and a smile from ear to ear.

“Enough of that,” Rafael announces as he draws back and tries to shake himself free of whatever spell Sonny has him under. “Let me just find a few things I need and then we’ll head home.”

“Home,” Sonny confirms, pleased as punch about the prospect (and the implication).

*****

A few minutes later, they’re just about through the door, Rafael doing a final once-over with a few books and files in hand, when Sonny turns and grabs him by the shoulders.

“I just need you to know, Raf, that I meant what I said too. Maybe I didn’t say it clear enough last night, or often enough before that, but I am _so_ happy to be here. With you.” He curves a hand back around Rafael’s neck, smooths down the errant hair there. 

“I kinda feel like a fool for sayin’ it, but I am so goddamn proud of you, Rafael. Not just because of Ellis or any of this,” he nods his head back toward the office, “but because of who you are. And who I am because of you.”

Rafael feels his heart drop into his stomach, feels a life’s worth of tension melting from his temples, his jaw, his shoulders. The weight of expectation so deeply rooted in his every cell, compelling him to keep up appearances, turn his back on _el barrio_ , choose a life of order and prestige over comfort and convenience, it escapes with the next breath from his lungs, _allegretto,_ as if it were never meant to be there at all. 

It’s the unbearable lightness of being. It’s freedom. It’s love, wild and untethered.

“It still gets so goddamn hard sometimes, y’know?” Sonny continues, “The cases and the cruelty of it all, it’s like nothin’ I do, nothin’ _we_ do, will ever make it right.”

He lays both hands and the base of Rafael’s neck, his thumbs cradling ears, his eyes clear and certain and desperate to be understood. “Then I remember how you challenged me to see the unseen, to focus on not just what’s written in the law, but what’s above and beyond it ... The students you have here, _man_. I just hope they know how fucking lucky they are.”

“Oh, Sonny,” Rafael says, hushed by the depth of his own wonder, “you clearly have it twisted. _Soy el afortunado aquí._ I am the lucky one.”

They kiss then, small and sweet–a prelude to impress even the most quixotic composer.

“What did I tell ya?” Sonny says, “a real romantic.”

**Author's Note:**

> While I am Puerto Rican, my spanish is super rough (lol thanks colonialism) so I apologize for any errors - please feel free to call them out as you see them/if you'd like clarification on meanings!
> 
> About the title: Allegretto (Op. 28 Prelude 17 in A Flat Minor) is another lovely piece by Chopin, much more upbeat than Lento Assai, but equally as beautiful. "Allegretto" literally means played at a brisk or fast tempo, and as with all of the pieces in this Preludes series, I wrote this while listening to it on repeat. For a month. Literally! So if you read it again, definitely listen while reading along. You won't be sorry!
> 
> Thanks again for stopping by and reading!


End file.
